


Sherlock's Dependency

by ShinigamiAnateria (ShinigamiKnox)



Series: Co-dependence [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bed-Wetting, Bordering on non-sexual ageplay, Bottle-Feeding, Brief mention of withdrawal, Fluff, John takes good care of Sherlock, Lots of cuddles, Loves Sherlock, M/M, Nightmares, Platonic Cuddling, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Previous drug usage, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Stuffed toys in a non-sexual context, This entire work is a bit not good, Thumb-sucking, mycroft's a good brother, touch-starved Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9586154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinigamiKnox/pseuds/ShinigamiAnateria
Summary: It began slowly and grew gradually. Their relationship was an odd one from the beginning. It started with the innocent praises, moved onto cuddling and soft words until Sherlock just disappeared. When he returned, worse off than before, John was there for anything he needed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. After a not so brief stint of reading some non-sexual age-play fics, I decided to write one of my own. It takes quite a bit to get started if that's the part you were looking for. Basically, it's another comfort fic, one I write when everything else sucks, essentially. Lots of love, lots of cuddles, and needy Sherlock is needy.  
> I think I got everything in the tags, but if something's missing, let me know.

He grew up with a lot of stuffed animals. Dogs, cats, bears, anything he could get his hands on. Many of them gathered dust in the closet while a lucky few were placed on furniture in his room. His family indulged him when he was younger, but once he hit a certain age (about the time Mycroft left for uni), his parents grew concerned. He was ten when he began having the nightmares that left him waking up in tears and soaked bedclothes. It wasn’t every night, sporadic enough to hide it for months, sporadic enough to deny it to his parents while Mycroft was gone.

Late at night, he held his favourite dog, Redbeard, and hoped he wouldn’t wake up wet. The brown strands rubbed comfortingly against his cheek while he pulled at his own darkening strands. His fingers would curl around the tip of his nose and his thumb would find its way into his mouth, another indulgent comfort. Breathing slowly, he would pull the edge of his blanket almost over his head in case his parents came in to check on him. It wouldn’t look good their eleven-year-old son cuddling up to a childhood toy and sucking his thumb.

Mycroft came home from uni for holidays. Sherlock could feel his gaze on him despite usually remaining dry for the time Mycroft was home. He knew Mycroft could tell, could _read_ it from him as if he were an open book. He almost wanted Mycroft to talk to him, if only to tell him that it was okay. Simultaneously, he was relieved when his brother didn’t mention it. He was getting used to being alone, turning to Redbeard before another person. It was a vicious cycle. If he felt more alone, he turned more towards his habits, which made him feel more alone.

This continued for some time. Eventually he lost them all, or rather he chose to leave them all behind. Redbeard had been the most difficult to leave, but he had to. The drugs numbed him out most of the time so he wouldn’t think about it and gave him a valid excuse for the occasional accident in the odd back alley or run-down house he found himself in. He didn’t feel the need to comfort himself with soft fabrics or thumb-sucking when he was high.

He managed to make it to twenty-four. Mycroft found him practically dying on the disgusting floor of his latest ‘home.’ He retrieved him and brought him back to his flat in London. Sherlock regained consciousness ten hours later in Mycroft’s second bedroom.

Mycroft presented the plush stuffed animal as both a bribe and a reward for Sherlock’s sobriety. The moderately-sized, bright yellow bee watched from the top of a wardrobe in the otherwise empty room as Sherlock went through a rather painful withdrawal. He only left his bed to lie on the cool bathroom floor to empty his non-existent stomach contents. Mycroft took this time to change the soiled sheets. It was an awful time for both of them; he hated seeing his little brother so low. He didn’t say a word about the bedwetting; it made sense that stress made it worse. At night, Mycroft watched him fitfully toss and turn until he curled in on himself and turned to soothing himself with his thumb. He wasn’t coherent enough to even try to hide it; he wanted the comfort. ‘Honestly, even at twenty-four…’ Mycroft thought to himself. Then again, this was far better than the drugs.

 

Ten years later Sherlock moved into Baker Street and met doctor John Watson.

“I already moved my stuff in…”

“As soon as we clean up…Oh.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock said sheepishly as he started shoving books into neat piles.

His room appeared bare. Under his sheets, he’d given in to keeping plastic sheets just in case. He hadn’t had an accident in six months, but stress and new environments made things unpredictable. Next to his pillow was the slightly faded but still bright yellow bumble bee Mycroft had given him. The bee had been with him through the other three withdrawals in the last ten years.

Occasionally he would bring the bee out into the common room with him to wake up in the morning while he lounged in his dressing gown on the sofa. It helped him think at times, when the thoughts came too fast for even him to decipher. Burying his face into the plush fabric allowed him to just _breathe_ for a moment. He was careful to hide this from John; he already thought Sherlock was immature. He took advantage of the time John went to work to have free range of the living room.

 

He miscalculated. Post-case high followed by the physical crash left him dead to the world for the next twelve hours. This particular case had really put a strain on him, mentally and physically.

So, when he woke up, face pressed into the bee’s soft belly, soaked, and shivering from cold bedclothes, he wasn’t too surprised. Pulling his lethargic body up, he held the bee to his chest with one arm and pulled the sheets off with the other after changing his clothes. He felt half asleep as he fed the sheets and clothes into the washing machine. Just as he closed the door, he got the odd feeling that he was being watched.

“What would it take to convince you I’m sleep-walking?” Sherlock asked hesitantly, his voice still heavy with sleep. He refused to turn to give John more to tease him about. He heard feet shuffling behind him and pulled his bee closer to him.

“If you hadn’t said anything, I might have thought…” John murmured. Sherlock pulled his dressing gown closed, a pitiful attempt at hiding the stuffed animal. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock spoke down to the machine. He adjusted the knobs then started the cycle. “You?”

“Yeah. Insomnia.”

Sherlock nodded in pity or an apology.

“Tea?” John offered. Sherlock hesitated. “It’s okay if…” What would John say? ‘If your ‘friend’ wants to join’? “It’s all fine,” he settled on.

 

“Aren’t bees supposed to have six legs?” John asked as he took two mugs out of the cupboard above him.

“It’s a child’s toy; it’s not supposed to be logical.”

“I figured you would invest in an anatomically accurate insect.”

“I didn’t buy it.” Sherlock stroked the top of its head.

“Your parents?” John sounded impressed that Sherlock could have kept something so long and kept it in good condition.

“No. Mycroft.”

“Really? When?”

“Ten years ago. Why are you so interested?”

John shrugged. “Middle of the night. You wanna talk about your nightmare instead?”

Sherlock glared.

“I thought not,” John said smugly.

“You’re not teasing me.” Sherlock looked at John curiously.

“I’m not going to tease you about your almost non-existent sentimental feelings.” John really couldn’t help the slight amount of sarcasm that slipped into his voice.

“It’s not sentiment,” Sherlock argued lamely. John disregarded it.

“It’s actually slightly endearing, if not a little odd.” John set the mug of tea in front of Sherlock and mumbled an apology. Sherlock hesitantly set his bee on the opposite side of John, further away from him to take the hot cup in both hands. John reached over slowly, giving Sherlock time to say no, before he grabbed a black antenna and pulled the bee into his lap. Sherlock watched, both curious and weary.

“Soft,” John commented.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed.

“Mycroft got this for you?”

“Yes.”

“Why? You said ten years ago, putting you in your twenties, right?”

Sherlock nodded.

“So, why did he get you a stuffed animal?”

Sherlock shrugged. “As far as I could tell, pity.”

“And you kept it?”

“I like it,” Sherlock argued defensively.

“Right.” John met Sherlock’s piercing gaze and offered the bee as a sort of peace offering. Sherlock took it and set it back off to the side. He took hold of the mug again before he could start lightly tugging on a strand of hair to distract him from his discomfort.

“You’ve been asleep a while. Are you hungry?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Liar.” John chuckled quietly as he got up to make toast.

Sherlock eventually dragged himself out of his chair to retrieve strawberry jam from the fridge. Just as Sherlock was tempted to get a spoon and dig into the jam alone, John slid a small plate in front of him with a couple slices of toast.

“Don’t even think about it,” John warned as he picked up the jar, knife in hand. Sherlock disregarded the knife when John was done and poured a small amount of jam directly onto his plate next to the toast.

John looked over at him in feigned disbelief. “You’re an absolute child,” he said playfully. Sherlock siled a bit and pulled his bee back into his lap, with a quick snuggle.

“Are you going back to sleep?” Sherlock asked. John shook his head.

“No point. I usually just stay up and watch telly.”

They both finished within the next couple of minutes and John made his exit to plop heavily down on one end. Sherlock curled up next to him in the middle of the sofa, clutching the bee to his chest.

 

John was asleep in half an hour and Sherlock turned his full attention to John, much more interesting than telly. His head and body rested on the back of the sofa with his arms around himself and his bee as he watched John. Light snoring made him comfortable enough to curl his fingers around the tip of his nose and pressed his thumbpad to his lips. Another breath and he slipped the digit into his mouth. His eyelids drooped but didn’t close completely.

A few minutes later, John jerked in his sleep. Sherlock ripped his hand away from his face guiltily. John shifted towards Sherlock and laid his head half on the cushion, half on Sherlock’s shoulder. He leaned his chin on top of John’s head.

He continued to shift until he gave in and laid down with his head in Sherlock’s lap. Only when the snoring resumed did Sherlock lift his head minutely in his lap and return his thumb to his mouth.

 

John woke to sun filtering in through the window and a warm body under his head. Fingers threated through his hair, slowly and steadily.

“ ‘s nice,” John mumbled lazily. His gaze took a moment to focus on the face above him. Blinking he saw green-blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. “Jesus, sorry.” John pulled himself into a sitting position. “How long was I out?”

“Four hours, I estimate. Do you usually fall asleep out here?”

“No.”

“Do you feel more rested?”

“Mh,” John pushed himself to his feet with a groan and a stretch. He rubbed his thigh—a habit—to get blood flowing through his leg. Sherlock sprawled out on the now-empty sofa on his stomach with his cheek pressed into his bee’s stomach.

“Comfortable?” John asked with a chuckle as he watched the display. Sherlock smiled into the bee and nodded.

 

After that interesting morning, John found it odd just six hours later, Sherlock was beside a dead body and rattling off observations to Lestrade as if nothing had happened. Then again, that was a pretty average morning to Sherlock.

An easy case meant they were home by dinner, sitting silently and eating at the table. Sherlock was tired on a decidedly full stomach but not enough to sleep just yet. Normally it would be these moments that he would take to composing or escape to his room, but he didn’t want to be alone nor did he feel as though he was in a good mindset to be composing. Perhaps a cuddle on the sofa would get him to feel tired enough to sleep, he hoped.

John sat beside Sherlock at the end of the sofa and turned his attention to the telly. Sherlock, holding his bee tightly to his chest, laid his head heavily on John’s lap. John leaned back into the cushions of the sofa with an arm resting on the back and armrest. His gaze fell to the back of Sherlock’s head.

“Turnabout’s fair,” Sherlock mumbled with his attention split between John’s reaction and the uninteresting programme about…fish?

“Sure,” John said easily. His body felt tense under Sherlock’s cheek and temple, nervous then, Sherlock noted. It took some time but eventually he relaxed and Sherlock felt more at ease. He could imagine the blood pumping, rushing, flowing right beneath his ear, through John’s femoral artery, keeping him alive, keeping his body oxygenated. Occasionally a muscle would twitch or his leg jerk but otherwise John was still, almost _too_ still.

Towards the end of that programme, John pulled the blanket Sherlock had left on the sofa earlier over Sherlock’s body. Sherlock stopped paying attention to the telly and started paying attention to his eyes closing slowly over and over again. It was getting harder to keep them open. Sherlock tugged on a couple of locks of hair and brought his closed fist up to his mouth instinctually with a soft, content sigh.

John’s full attention was on the next programme; he didn’t even notice Sherlock’s weight on his lap anymore. At least, he hadn’t until the hypnagogic jerks started. Only then did he become aware of the soft suckling sound originating from Sherlock’s mouth.

John chuckled. Ah, the great Sherlock Holmes, snuggling a stuffed bee _and_ sucking his thumb. Criminals should be shaking in fear. It shouldn’t have been adorable, but it was. Perhaps some of it was Sherlock felt comfortable enough to be this open in John’s presence. John couldn’t imagine Sherlock being like this with anyone else. Hell, did Mycroft even know his little brother _still_ sucked his thumb?

Well, probably, John thought. But no one else. Sherlock trusted him enough with this fragile and endearing part of him. John recognised a little jolt of protectiveness for the man in his lap, the full grown, dangerous, emotional man. He sunk further into the cushions which made Sherlock whine and shift into a more comfortable position. John dropped his hand from the back of the sofa to Sherlock’s shoulder and bicep, rubbing along his upper arm slowly, as if to keep from waking him. The blanket felt soft and warm under his palm. Sherlock’s shoulder pressed into John’s thigh but he ignored the discomfort.

With some time, Sherlock turned onto his stomach and John pulled the blanket over his back. Sherlock’s shoulders shifted slightly and he basically _mewed_ contently. John gave in to the urge to run his hand up and down Sherlock’s warm, lean back.

Sometime later, Sherlock jerked awake. With a soft breath, he settled his head back onto John’s lap, turned onto his back, and looked up at John with a sleepy gaze.

“You’re warm,” Sherlock smiled lazily as he pulled his bee up beneath his chin.

“You’re heavy.”

“Am not,” Sherlock murmured with a bit of a pout. His free hand was pulled out from under the tangle of fabric and guided John’s hand to his stomach. He practically preened as John rubbed large, slow circles over the blanket resting against Sherlock’s abdomen.

Sherlock tilted his head towards John’s hip as he returned his hand to the warmth of the blanket. His eyes closed again. As John slid his hand from Sherlock’s stomach to his chest and neck, Sherlock dug his feet into the opposite armrest and curled his toes into the black, sleek material. His body bowed slightly to lean into John’s hand on his neck as he exhaled through parted lips.

John’s fingertips brushed the short hairs on the nape of his neck softly. “Okay?” John asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Sherlock hummed in approval. “Fine.” His own voice was deeper than it usually was, yet quieter.

“You should go to bed,” John murmured.

“Not tired.” His voice and his closed eyes proved otherwise.

“Liar,” John chuckled as he began scratching lightly through those short hairs. Sherlock’s head and body turned towards John’s body and he buried his nose into John’s hip. Here, in this place, he could smell John, some tea he had earlier, what he had for dinner and lunch, and his own personal, individualized scent—indescribable—mixed with perspiration and the general smell of London overtop.

John felt hot breathes, slow and steady, bleeding into his hip through the fabric of his shirt. “Come on,” John attempted to push him up. “I’ll tuck you in.” They both paused in slight confusion. John because he’d just offered to tuck his flatmate in like a child and Sherlock in disbelief. Sherlock looked up at John—was he smiling?—eyes suddenly bright and hopeful.

“You want me to?” John asked hesitantly.

Sherlock nodded, almost eager.

“Really?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock ripped the blanket off and almost let his bee fall from his grasp. His hold on the ball-like end of the antennae kept it in his hand. He didn’t check to see if John was following him; he heard the footsteps behind him as he reached the hallway.

By the time John got to the door, Sherlock was getting comfortable, the edge of his duvet laying over his waist. He turned onto his side to face John in the doorway and wrapped his long arms around the bee against his chest and partly around himself. He looked at John curiously, as if he wanted to say something. Ultimately, he remained quiet and content while John pulled the duvet up over his shoulders and gently pushed the sides under his body, tight but not so tight as to trap him.

“Happy?” John patted Sherlock’s head briefly as Sherlock hummed and nodded.

 

The next couple of days went on as if nothing had happened. John didn’t even see the bee for a while after that. So long, in fact, that he’d thought it had all been an odd sort of dream.

The next big case ended on a threatening note with Moriarty in the pool room barely leaving them alive. Sherlock’s hands were steady as they lowered the gun to aim at the bomb jacket between them. Of course, he worked best when under duress, when his life was on the line. It was after that he fell apart. Especially this time. Moriarty had found a way to get under his skin in a way John had never seen, never thought was capable.

It took him hours to settle himself down enough to get into a restless sleep. Barely a couple hours after doing so, he woke from a rather vivid nightmare, something he hadn’t experienced since childhood. His bottoms—wet, of course—were still warm and he clutched at the empty space in front of him. The lack of plush fabric beneath his searching fingers made his shallow breaths even worse. He trembled as he tried soothing himself with his thumb instead. When he was coherent enough, he reached behind him to grasp onto the fuzzy antennae. With a soft sigh, he curled his fingers along the tip of his nose and breathed in. He lost himself in the sensation of soft fabric against his neck, warm skin on his tongue, and his warm, suckling mouth on his finger; it felt _right_.

Sherlock recognised he needed to get up to clean himself and the bed but all he wanted to do was stay where he was safe and cry. He couldn’t remember a time where he felt so utterly helpless and actually wanted someone to take care of him so completely. He always worked to hide these things and he cringed at the thought of John—or God forbid, Mrs. Hudson—were to even touch his soiled sheets, but moving just seemed like so terribly _much_ at that moment.

‘Lazy,’ John’s voice from his mind palace prodded at him until it pushed the helpless feeling back. He set his bee safely on the ground as he pulled himself up.

He heard John’s footsteps, not descending down the stairs, but from the kitchen. “Sherlock, you all right?”

He wasn’t sure how he wanted to answer, so he just shook his head while he continued shoving his sheets and duvet—honestly, how did he manage to make that much of a mess?—into the machine. His thumb returned to his mouth as he fiddled with the dials with his other hand. John watched him with some concern as Sherlock appeared to zone out. After a few moments, he cleared his throat quietly, causing the detective to jump.

“I was just, uh, heading up to bed. You probably have a change of sheets, but if you want, for tonight, you can…”

Sherlock nodded. The hand that had been adjusting knobs tugged at strands of his hair now. It wasn’t until John put a hand on his back—meant to guide him—did look at John with a worried look. “Can’t. Not in your bed. I’ll…” Sherlock’s cheeks reddened. He never really talked about the bedwetting with anyone.

“You don’t know that for sure. But if you’re concerned, we can always use your mattress protector under my sheets,” John said it so easily, Sherlock couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe John’s endless love and patience for him. He felt like he didn’t deserve it. But as John and him pulled the protector off Sherlock’s bed and situated it onto John’s, Sherlock realised how grateful he was for John.

He began pulling sheets back onto the bed as Sherlock excused himself quietly to get a quick shower. By the time he’d returned, John was settled into bed and turned away from the door. Sherlock climbed in on the empty side as carefully as he could. The bed was decently sized, like Sherlock’s, perfect for one man, but two made it a little cramped. Sherlock shifted far enough away from the edge to keep from falling off which put him close to John’s body. He was close enough to feel the heat radiating off John’s back but not close enough to touch. John moved a little and his foot caught between Sherlock’s. It was enough to ground them both, to keep them from returning to the dark swimming pool when they closed their eyes.

 

Sherlock woke the next morning, thankfully dry, but with an odd pressure against his side. His bee was clutched safely to his chest and the warmth encompassing him made it harder to fight off the drowsiness. But realising where he was and just what that pressure was…oh.

He kept his breathing steady. His face was on a pillow and rested quite closely to John’s shoulder. An arm was around him and his body was pressed almost flush to John’s with the exception of the bee and Sherlock’s arms between their chests.

John not only snored (only quietly), but drooled, too. Sherlock’s morning erection had faded quickly upon waking but it was clear John was not awake yet, and glancing at the clock behind him, would not be awake for another couple of hours.

It felt warm and safe here. Sherlock felt at peace here. He felt loved. He felt…lonely, like he wanted to wake John up. The urge to cry was back so he settled with latching onto his thumb and snuggling into the warm body in front of him.

John woke slowly. Sleepily, he reached for the body against him with a quiet hum and lazily rutted into the hipbone against his pelvis. Lips found a soft, silky neck and pressed kisses along the skin. He smiled and gave a bit of a tonguing to the area right above the clavicle as he finally opened his eyes…to a stock-still Sherlock, eyes wide and body tense as a board.

“Sorry—“ they both started. “I thought I…Never mind,” John murmured.

“Right,” Sherlock nodded. “I should have left ages ago.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“Couple hours.”

“And you stayed still for that long?”

“I’ve stayed still for longer and for better reasons,” Sherlock responded petulantly.

“I’m sure you have.” John rolled back out of bed. Sherlock mourned the loss of heat and the feeling of safety by burrowing further into John’s sheets. “You can’t possibly still be tired,” John mumbled around a toothbrush at the doorway. Sherlock moaned dramatically and pulled the blanket over his head. He heard John return to the loo, finish up, then return to the doorway.

“Come on. Let’s get some tea in you, some food in your belly, and we can cuddle on the sofa, if you want.”

Sherlock tentatively poked his head out. “Really?”

John nodded more confidently than he felt. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

Sherlock felt his stomach growl at the mention of food as he descended the stars behind John.

They shared a nice breakfast together and John stayed true to his word. Still in their pyjamas, they sat in front of the telly. Sherlock wanted to sprawl out in John’s lap, but he had a feeling John would be unhappy with how he wanted to be held. Even still, he plastered himself to John’s side with his bee squished between them and a blanket was pulled up over their laps. Under the blanket, Sherlock’s free hand rested on John’s leg until it began searching for John’s hand.

Fingers locked together under the blanket and John brought his other arm under Sherlock’s shoulders, wedged between his back and the sofa cushion. They didn’t talk about it.

 

When Mycroft brought up the plan to tell Moriarty some of Sherlock’s secrets (not many of the more personal ones—those were unnecessary and irrelevant) to lure Moriarty into talking and into a false sense of security, the nightmares turned from Moriarty beating him to Mycroft betraying him. Hell, the one night he dreamt of John betraying him, of John _leaving_ him. That night, he woke up drenched in several bodily functions, sweat, tears, _and_ urine. Upon shuffling through the motions to clean himself up, he silently climbed the stairs and sat at John’s bedside to watch him sleep. He felt the uncontrollable tears rolling down his cheeks but merely continued blinking them away.

John woke up twenty minutes later to the feeling of being watched. It wasn’t exactly unusual. What _was_ unusual was the shining tear marks along Sherlock’s face. John lifted the blanket up with a sigh. “Come on, then.”

Sherlock wasted no time in climbing in and grasping onto John’s shirt. He quickly found skin-on-skin contact soothed him so he nuzzled up to John’s neck. John had little choice in his sudden armful of consulting detective.

“No bee?” John asked and immediately regretted it. More tears welled in Sherlock’s eyes as he became aware that he’d forgotten it in his rush up to John.

“Well, go get it,” John mumbled sleepily. Sherlock vigorously shook his head with a pitiful sniffle. John, in his half-asleep state, knew he wouldn’t get much more sleep if Sherlock was unhappy, so he volunteered to go himself with a long-suffering sigh. Sherlock clutched onto John’s shirt with an even more pitiful cry. “We’ll go together?” John offered.

Sherlock relented to this option. Unwilling to let go, Sherlock kept a hold of John’s hand as they trekked to Sherlock’s room and back. When they were settling in under John’s covers, it was as if the relief of being safe with John to look after him just let him crumble. He tucked himself against John’s side with another pitiful sniffle, this time accompanied by a quiet, stifled sob. The lithe detective curled up against him trembled with effort to keep himself from outright sobbing for no other reason than he felt the intense need to, as if it would help anything.

John tried to ignore it and go back to sleep to keep from embarrassing the both of them, but _his_ detective was practically vibrating against his side.

“Hey,” John murmured softly. A hand squeezed Sherlock’s upper arm in an attempt to comfort. “You’re okay,” John said, voice barely above a whisper. His hand moved to the flat plain of Sherlock’s back and rubbed large, slow circles. His words and actions seemed to trigger Sherlock to stop trying to hold back, or maybe he just couldn’t anymore. Either way, the result was Sherlock _sobbing_ into John’s shirt.

“Settle down, little one,” John murmured against the dark, unruly curls pressed against his closed lips a moment later. He didn’t know what willed him to refer to Sherlock, of all people, as little one, but that seemed to help. His sobs quieted to gasping breaths as John continued to soothe the riled-up detective.

“Sweetheart, relax. That’s it,” John said encouragingly. “That’s my good boy.”

At these words, Sherlock snuggled into John’s embrace. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal and he fell limp at John’s side, decidedly exhausted. John shifted to his back and guided Sherlock to his chest, a shoulder and a soft bee pressed into his side and an arm under Sherlock.

“You want to talk about it?” John offered. He wasn’t surprised to get a head shake in response. “Tomorrow, then?” John expected another rejection but Sherlock nodded after a moment, reluctant.

 

Sherlock was gone when John woke up. He wasn’t even in the flat or with Lestrade or even _Mycroft_. He’d return home eventually, John thought. Something had shifted between him and Sherlock last night. He couldn’t help thinking about it, about what he’d said. It was okay to soothe a friend through encouraging words and maybe a hug or two, but for his flatmate to crawl into his bed with him after a nightmare? For him to insinuate Sherlock was a child for it? That was more than a bit not good. But Sherlock had responded quite positively. Maybe it had just been John’s tone. Maybe Sherlock woke up, realised what John had said, and left, having been thoroughly offended. 

John had been prepared for a sulky consulting detective upon his return home but had been met with a nice cup of hot tea placed opposite of Sherlock, who had his own cup between two hands. His feet were curled up beneath his body and the deep blue dressing gown was open to the sides. Underneath, Sherlock was dressed in his usual shirt and dress trousers.

“Busy day?” John asked as he sat opposite Sherlock.

“Hmm,” he hummed in response.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “You, uh, said we should talk.”

“Well, you’ve been a bit…”

“I know,” Sherlock’s entire body seemed to deflate. “It’s understandable that you’d get upset.”

“Me? Upset?” John asked as his head tilted in confusion. “No, I’m just concerned.”

“It’s fine, you’re not obliged to…”

“Sherlock, I’m your friend.” What John had said after that wasn’t processed for several long moments, Sherlock having been caught up on a phrase that sounded foreign to him.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes,” he answered immediately.

“You know that, right?”

“Know what?”

“I enjoy your company. Even…in my bed. It’s really no trouble. I just want to make sure you’re okay. You were quite upset last night.”

Sherlock heard the soft words John spoke to him last night in his mind, from a place he vowed never to replace or delete. “I… Well… Right,” he stuttered. His face felt hot and he felt suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said curtly.

“I didn’t mean to offend you. When I said…”

“No, that was, uh, the thing you did, that was…good.”

John blinked. He could see Sherlock _blushing_.

“It gets overwhelming sometimes. I just, sort of, short circuit,” Sherlock tried to explain.

“That’s what that was? Short circuiting?”

“It’s never been that bad. Usually I can push the feeling away and continue as if nothing happened.”

“That’s probably not good,” John commented.

“But something just kind of broke last night. It was like I was drowning and your voice, you holding onto me, kept my head above water.”

“Are you—You look better today.”

Sherlock shrugged. “The feeling goes away eventually.” He wasn’t going to mention it usually did so with the help of drugs or some other addictive substance. The feeling of _wanting_ someone to just be there with him, to hold him, that was new and it seemed the more it happened, the more he let it happen, the stronger the feeling got. It was a vindictive cycle. He felt childish and small for the things he wanted, but denying it would do nothing. Admitting he had these desires would make things easier, right?

“And the nightmares?” John asked. He was definitely familiar with nightmares that made him wake up almost screaming, drenched in perspiration.

“Happen,” Sherlock shrugged it off.

“Sherlock, things are still bad, even if you put it off for later, it does come back later.”

“Well, I’m certainly not trying _therapy_.” Sherlock said it with such disdain. “I’m fine. I’m managing.”

“Managing and fine are two distinctly different terms.”

“You do what works for you and I do what works for me.”

John sighed. There would be no convincing Sherlock otherwise. “Right. Because you love washing your bedclothes in the middle of the night.”

Sherlock’s face reddened immensely. “No. But I…” Any argument he could think of just kind of dissipated out of his mind or maybe they all became too jumbled to distinguish. It wasn’t often he discussed these personal details of his life, if ever.

“You like it,” John looked at him curiously.

“No! I—“ Sherlock felt his face grow impossibly hotter.

“Not the bedwetting, but the other things. You like feeling small and vulnerable. You like the idea of relying on someone else at times.”

“People are unreliable.”

“Hm, I bet you hate that part, admitting to yourself that you want someone for anything, someone you can depend on.”

Sherlock closed in on himself even more but John didn’t back down. He didn’t know when Sherlock would allow this kind of discussion again. “I said I _didn’t_ want therapy.”

“Not therapy. It’s merely one friend talking to another.”

“It’s personal.”

“Friends share personal information.”

“Not like this.” His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t talk to anyone else about it. So, talk to me. I’m not leaving you, Sherlock. Nothing you could tell me could make me leave.”

“Don’t make a promise you aren’t sure you can keep.”

“I’m not.” John noticed Sherlock sounded more afraid than angry. So, he was afraid of being alone again.

“Moriarty is still out there. He knows you’re my…” Sherlock swallowed. “Friend.” Weakness.

“Oh,” John realised. Oh, he was afraid of him leaving, intentionally or otherwise. “You silly, ridiculous man,” John smiled. Sherlock looked up in confusion. “Do you really believe that I’ll let that happen? Do you really believe _you’ll_ let that happen?” He set his tea down and leaned back in his chair. “Come here.” When Sherlock hesitated, John nodded and held his arms out. “Come on. Really.”

Sherlock got up, pulled his dressing gown up around his shoulders, and shuffled over hesitantly. John pulled him down into his lap. He ran his arms along Sherlock’s back and arm and Sherlock leaned into his body. He curled himself up as much as he could in John’s lap and nuzzled into his neck, letting John embrace him. It felt so _good_.

Sherlock revelled in the pair-bonding hormone release. He pressed his forehead into the crook of John’s neck and brought his hand up to his mouth, latching onto his thumb silently.

“There are better ways of dealing with things,” John murmured, his cheek pressed to the top of Sherlock’s head. He had one arm around his back, supporting some of his weight while the other rubbed his upper arm soothingly.

It took twenty minutes for John’s legs to fall asleep. Sherlock wasn’t going to move until John said anything but he also didn’t want to discourage this happening again. Reluctantly, he pulled away and got to his feet. His hand dropped from his mouth to grab at his left sleeve. John rubbed his legs, got up himself, and stretched. He took a look at Sherlock and leaned up to press a soft kiss to Sherlock’s forehead while his left hand stroked through the dark strands at the back of his head.

“Friends don’t do this,” Sherlock said in a low voice, laced with disappointment.

“No, I suppose not,” John admitted. “Guess that makes us something more.” He scratched Sherlock’s head a couple more times with a grin before leaving the kitchen to shower and wash away the smell of antiseptic.

 

That night, over takeaway, John offered Sherlock a spot in his bed.

Confused, Sherlock tilted his head and said, “But I already sleep there sometimes.”

John shook his head. “I mean, for the whole night, not just when you have a nightmare and need comfort.”

“I couldn’t.” Sherlock swallowed, his appetite suddenly gone and his mouth dry.

“I told you the first night that everything was fine.”

“I can’t promise I won’t…”

“I don’t expect you to promise. But I think you’ll sleep better, you won’t have as many nightmares, and it won’t happen as often if you feel less alone.” John wasn’t going to mention anything about rocking Sherlock to sleep or any of the other plans he had, not just yet. Baby steps, John thought and had to choke back a laugh at his phrasing. “Besides, as a doctor, I’ve seen and been through worse.”

Sherlock kept picking at the food in front of him without meeting John’s eyes.

“If you’re really worried about it, we can figure something else out.”

“I don’t expect you to have to deal with soiled bedclothes or anything of the sort,” Sherlock said bluntly. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“Okay, then we can try something else.”

 

The next month proceeded oddly. Sherlock didn’t expect John to be so caring and patient and loving. Out in public, he was still praised as usual, a “Fantastic,” or “Brilliant,” tossed about when Sherlock saw something no one else did. But in private, John praised him a different way with different phrases. “Good boy,” “excellent, little one,” and “sweetheart” or “love” were used in non-romantic ways. It always made Sherlock preen with a slight blush. John picked up on a lot more than Sherlock gave him credit for, or rather, indulged Sherlock in activities that he wouldn’t participate in otherwise, such as the affectionate terms.

Sherlock adjusted slowly to sleeping in John’s bed. For weeks, he spent more nights in his own bed than John’s, but as he went longer and longer without an accident, he spent more nights in John’s embrace.

“You’re doing so well, my sweet boy,” John commented one morning. Sherlock pressed a kiss to his cheek and snuggled up even more to John.

There were also times John learned Sherlock didn’t want to be coddled. Most often, it was when he was busy with experiments or cases. There would be no cuddles on nights Sherlock stayed awake pouring over case file after case file and John didn’t push. Sherlock needed to do what he needed to do and when he crashed, it was often in John’s bed, where John could keep watch over him.

It wasn’t a romantic relationship or anything sexual. It was…different. It was a relationship neither of them had experienced before and it was new and exciting. John took care of Sherlock before, but that was just to make sure he ate, perhaps drank water or tea, slept. Now, on top of that stuff, he was making sure Sherlock got the love and affection he wanted and needed for his emotional wellbeing. He made sure his bee was in his arms when he crashed after a case. He tucked him in at night. He rocked him to sleep if need be. Admittedly, that didn’t often happen in the first month, but Sherlock had responded quite well to the couple of times they’d tried it. The relationship in itself was an experiment for both of them.

The more they indulged, the more Sherlock felt at ease with letting himself be taken care of. He felt in control of himself and his emotions. He cried, still, when he felt distraught or overwhelmed, mostly at night, but he no longer felt so alone with John there holding him and talking to him.

This continued for months. Sherlock didn’t often have nightmares with John next to him, but when he did, he woke up shaking but dry. It was a significant relief, the first couple times that happened, enough to allow him to snuggle up to John in happiness and almost completely forget the nightmare he woke up from. Similarly, John didn’t dream. He didn’t wake up to shoulder and leg pain, reminding him of the dry desert or being covered in someone else’s blood as often. When he did wake up from such a vivid, awful dream, he calmed himself by watching the slow rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest while he nestled into the nape of Sherlock’s neck. The smell of Sherlock overrode the sense memory of blood and iron invading his senses.

John still went out on dates, mostly with women. Although, he seldom spent the night and most certainly didn’t invite them to Baker Street. Those nights, he came home, showered, and joined Sherlock in bed. He was concerned initially. John feared Sherlock wanted more, or rather, feared Sherlock didn’t know how to ask for more and would react badly to John seeking out a sexual release with someone else. But when John came home late the first time, John knew Sherlock knew. He’d showered, sure, but Sherlock was observant; there would be no hiding it from him. Instead of saying anything, Sherlock pulled John’s arm around his stomach, subsequently pulling John’s front to Sherlock’s back, and sighed contently. Pressing a quick kiss to his clothed shoulder, John could see a smile on Sherlock’s lips and felt everything fall into place. This would work. It would be strange, but it would be okay.

 

Days blurred into weeks, into months. Eventually Sherlock stopped counting how many dry days there had been in John’s bed; it didn’t matter anymore. He woke up more often than not to John’s warm nose nuzzled into the back of his neck or the top of his head or pressed into his cheek. He had John’s legs pressed against his own and felt warm, safe, _protected_. And despite the rush of the thought that _he_ needed to be the one protecting John, he let himself be comfortable in John’s arms. It was all fine, as John would say.

It wasn’t until he woke up wet in John’s bed that he counted back the days—a whole eight months he’d gone—and despite the encouragement, despite John reassuring him with his patience and unending love, Sherlock cried. He started off softly as he sought out John. The warm arm around him was in the usual spot—somewhere between Sherlock’s waist and directly under his arm—barely comforted him, as it usually did. They were close, John would know, John would _feel_ his mistake. Not good, Sherlock kept repeating to himself.

He turned towards John’s peaceful face. He hadn’t even stirred yet. Sherlock felt alone and upset and wet. It hadn’t even been a nightmare, well, he couldn’t remember a nightmare. He thought he’d just been too lax on his caffeine and water restrictions after dinner.

He started off softly, barely making any noise or any movement past the occasional shake. As he grew in both shaking and volume of his crying, John woke and was made aware of the mess before him.

Before even being fully conscious, he was soothing the detective before him. A hand through his curls and he had Sherlock plastered to his front. Warm tears slid down the side of his neck, almost tickling John. He soothed the detective as if he’d had a nightmare. He patted his head, held him close, and kept saying how strong he was. Sherlock trembled as he waited for John to realise, for him to respond with disgust and kick him out.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“Not a nightmare,” Sherlock said between sobs. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know you didn’t mean to. But we have to get up, love. We’ll clean you up, yeah?”

“Yes, I’ll…I’ll get to it,” Sherlock began pushing himself away from John.

“Why don’t we get you into the bath?”

“What about your bed?

“Don’t worry about it. Come on, up we go.” John pushed Sherlock up, took his hand, and led him to the loo.

“I can do it,” Sherlock murmured quietly while John turned the tap. Sherlock’s thumb slipped between his lips in an attempt to keep him from crying anymore.

“I know you _can_ , love.”

John left after he turned the water off, leaving Sherlock alone in the bathroom. He’d meant to give Sherlock privacy, but he wanted John to keep assuring him it was fine. He didn’t give a damn about privacy.

He pulled his clothes off, his bottoms making a rather disgusting wet sound against the linoleum. A shower would have been better, but he had to admit a bath sounded pretty good, too. There was a layer of bubbles from some sort of soap John had put in the water that he disturbed as he lowered himself in the hot water.

It burned for about half a minute, but once his skin began tolerating the heat, it was the perfect temperature. He quickly scrubbed his body with his own soap then laid back to simply enjoy the warmth around him.

Some minutes later, just after he let his eyes slip closed, John tapped on the door. “You doing okay, Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to grab your clothes, is that okay?”

“Yes.”

John pushed the door slowly open until he was able to reach the pile of clothes by the sink. He immediately turned to leave, resulting in a wave of emotion in Sherlock.

“Um,” he cleared his throat. John paused with his hand on the doorknob. “You can come back. If you want, I mean. I don’t mind.” His voice sounded small and unsure; it was odd to hear.

“Do you want me to?” John asked without turning.

Sherlock nodded slowly before forcing his voice to respond. John wouldn’t see the nodding. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Please.”

John nodded and closed the door behind him. Sherlock hated how it made him feel. It was just a closed door, John would be coming back, he wasn’t alone. Although, to be fair, John probably wouldn’t want him sleeping in his bed anymore and for that, Sherlock couldn’t blame him. It had been nice while it lasted but no one likes a rude awakening in the middle of the night.

John returned barely a minute later. Sherlock relaxed into the water again while John sat on the closed lid of the toilet, his eyes turned towards the door and away from Sherlock.

“I _am_ sorry,” Sherlock murmured after a long silence. John turned briefly to him but ultimately dropped his gaze to the floor.

“It’s okay. You might want to rinse the water off when you’re done.”

Sherlock nodded. “Why are you being so nice?” He regretted the question before he finished asking.

“I care about you. I thought that was obvious.”

“I gathered as much, but…” his voice faltered. Caring about someone to this extent, people didn’t do that, not flatmates.

John reached over and put his hand through the dry strands of Sherlock’s hair. His gaze fell on Sherlock’s face, flushed from the heat of the water. He dipped his fingers into the water and reached up to run his fingers over Sherlock’s cheeks, effectively removing the tear tracks from his face.

“Maybe, I just love you,” John murmured. Sherlock continued staring at John, unsure of how to respond. “Don’t act so surprised. No one else gets away with the stuff you do.” John smiled fondly then leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “My sweet boy,” he crooned softly.

Suddenly wanting to cuddle, Sherlock emptied the water and stood to shower it off. John let his gaze slide back down to the floor, however, the moment he stepped out, dripping water onto the floor, John was there and had begun towelling his hair dry.

“Do you want me to…?” John blushed as the towel was brought down to Sherlock’s shoulders. He nodded. Slowly, John gently patted Sherlock’s neck, shoulders, chest, and arms. He, then, dropped down onto his good leg and began patting Sherlock’s lower body. When he finished, John stood and found himself with a handful, or rather _arm_ ful, of a quite naked consulting detective. Sherlock rubbed his cheek affectionately against John as they embraced.

“C’mon,” John pulled away eventually. “Let’s get you dressed and back into bed.”

Sherlock fully expected the next morning to be told that while it had been nice, perhaps he should return to his own bed. John didn’t say anything of the sort. In fact, he never even brought it up.

 

It was just about to get interesting. Sherlock was aware John had gotten him things but he didn’t know what specifically. John had always quipped about how bad his thumb was for his teeth, so perhaps some sort of plastic imitation that was supposed to be better?

Oh, how he wanted to stick around and find out. But duty called and Moriarty had to be stopped. This meant Sherlock had to be alone, had to be strong. But when John closed the door behind him in Bart’s, John’s parting tone and the knowledge that this might be the last time he’d see John for a long while, he felt devastated. He had to remind himself that he was doing this so John wouldn’t be in danger and if he was lucky, he could come back to John soon.

That had been two years ago, two very long, very hard years. Sherlock adjusted to being on his own again. When he returned, he noticed John had done the same. He looked awful. He looked at Sherlock with such an expression, he knew John didn’t believe his senses. He’d seen Sherlock before, several times in fact, or thought he had. Sherlock was just another delusion.

Only this time it wasn’t a delusion. The rough coat under his fingertips and the smell of cologne under his collar, no, this was Sherlock. He’d long forgotten that smell, couldn’t recreate it this vividly. This was real.

He crashed into Sherlock, grasping onto the lapels of his coat, his shirt, anything he could grab onto to keep Sherlock from leaving him again. He pressed kisses to his cheeks, his nose, any patch of skin he could find just to feel the warm skin against his lips. He dipped lower to catch Sherlock’s own in a not-so-chaste kiss. Oh, this was new, Sherlock noted, but not entirely unpleasant.

When John broke away, Sherlock fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around John. He pressed the side of his face into John’s stomach and rubbed his cheek against John’s shirt. He stroked through Sherlock’s hair and over his shoulders.

It didn’t take long for them to get back into a sort of rhythm. John found Sherlock even more clingy and emotional. Yet, at night, he refused to sleep in John’s bed. It took a week for John to realise why. Clingy and emotional and so, so fragile. What had happened in the last two years had really done a number on Sherlock. He had slipped further and often woke up sobbing between gasping breaths. Waking up with his bee next to him, the bee that smelled so much like John—he’d slept with it often when Sherlock was gone, then—helped a little, but he felt hopeless. It felt like he was suffocating and he hated that he wanted nothing more than to curl up next to John and be coddled. They’d tried that before and it made him weak.

Still, for the third night that week, he found himself staring at an untouched warm cup of tea with his knees held to his chest on the sofa.

“You can come up, if you’d like,” John offered from the doorway. He had his blanket held tightly around his shoulders. Sherlock looked up at John blankly, his eyes bloodshot from both lack of good sleep and from crying. “You look awful.”

Sherlock blinked. John expected a sarcastic response but got nothing. It was unsettling.

“Come on. It’s cold down here.”

“But I made tea.”

John nodded and sat in the opposite chair across the table. “Aren’t you cold?” He didn’t even have his dressing gown on, John noted.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Usually it goes better if you actually drink the tea, not just stare at it.”

Sherlock didn’t answer him for a long time, so long, John reached over and took a sip of the sickly sweet tea himself.

“Decaf? Since when?”

“How can you tell the difference?”

“I can’t, especially with so much sugar. You left the box out.”

Sherlock hummed in response. He didn’t even bother looking behind him.

“Sherlock, when was the last time you slept?”

“Couple hours ago.”

“Okay, let me rephrase. When was the last time you slept well?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Okay.” John got up. “Will you try something for me, then?”

Sherlock wasn’t going to admit he was willing to try anything to get some sleep. He just nodded.

John climbed up the stairs and returned without the blanket over his shoulders. Ah, so he wanted to try warm milk. He huffed as he got up to dump the tea down the sink.

“Do you really think that will work?” Sherlock dropped his chin on John’s shoulder from behind him as John heated the milk.

“No.”

“Then why—“

“I think it will _help_.”

Sherlock brought his arms up around John’s abdomen. He felt a warm hand over his clasped hands.

“Come on, sweetheart,” John murmured and took Sherlock’s hand, like he did before. Sherlock grabbed his bee of the seat he’d been in and let John lead him up to his room. John sat with his back against the headboard and a pillow under his lower back before he pulled Sherlock into his lap. He pressed his forehead against John’s neck, held his bee against his own chest, and brought his feet up on the edge of the bed. John kept a hand on his back while he guided the bottle up to Sherlock’s mouth. It was awkward at first, but his mouth latched on with ease habitually. He had to admit, John’s hand rubbing his back, his heartbeat in his ear, his slow breathing, and the suckling was soothing. He couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

“That’s it,” John murmured, rocking them both slightly. “That’s a sweet boy. Sleep, love.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. He watched the tight grip on the bee between them loosen and the suckling became irregular. Eventually John was able to pull the half-full bottle away and set it aside. He tipped Sherlock back onto the other side of the bed. He felt Sherlock’s hand grab at his arm and begin to fuss when he tried to lean away just to pull the blanket up. A few moments later, he had them both under the blanket and had himself pressed as close to Sherlock as physics would allow.

 

John woke first. Sherlock had sprawled out over his half of the bed and part of John. It was great seeing him sleep so soundly but John had to untangle their limbs to use the loo. By the time he returned, Sherlock had taken up the entire bed somehow and John’s stomach growled. He decided to make breakfast.

He had the entire morning to himself. Sherlock slept well into the afternoon. When lunchtime came and passed, he decided to check on Sherlock. It happened to be perfect timing, Sherlock stirred at the sound of the door opening.

“Sleep well?” John leaned against the door frame. He was met with a lazy nod before Sherlock buried his face in a pillow. “Hungry?” Another nod. “Come on, then.” He took Sherlock’s hand and led him downstairs. Sherlock had his bee in the other hand. John led him to the kitchen, where he let go of John’s hand to use the loo.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured softly as he took a seat by John.

John hummed. “For breakfast, or…last night?”

“Both.”

“So, it was good?”

Sherlock nodded. “I was sceptical, but clearly it worked.”

“You’re comforted by things that make you feel small.”

“Seems so,” he agreed.

“It’s fine, you know.” John turned his full attention to the other man in room while he waited for the toast to finish.

“It’s not. It makes me dependent on you and unable to do what needs to be done.”

“That’s not true,” John argued. “You’re just as brilliant on cases. You still solve cases at least twice as fast as Scotland yard.”

He snorted derisively. John ignored it.

“You just need a bit more…affection and encouragement, and that’s okay. Whatever happened while you were…away, it’s clearly affected you—no, wait,” John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist before he could escape. “I’m sorry.” He pulled Sherlock into a hug. It took a few moments for Sherlock to place his own hands on John’s back. “I, uh, just wanted you to know, it’s still all fine. Anything you need, anything you want.”

“You want more,” Sherlock said against John’s hair. “I don’t know if I can…”

“Ah, no, you don’t need to worry about that.”

“I do, though. I want to be enough.”

“Sherlock,” John pushed him back but kept him grip on his upper arms. “You are more than enough.”

“It’d wouldn’t be a conventional relationship.”

John laughed. “I didn’t expect it would be. Friendship, relationship, any sort of relationship with you wouldn’t be ordinary. You’d get bored.”

“Oh, I could never get bored of you.” Sherlock surged forward to press a quick kiss on John’s lips. “I’m not so sure about sex,” he said nervously.

“You really don’t need to worry—“

“But I would like to try, you know, when I’m not so…”

“Little?” John proffered hesitantly. Sherlock nodded. 

“I can’t do both at the same time.”

“I don’t want you to. Just let me be what you need.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and pulled him back into a hug. He felt Sherlock nuzzle into his neck as the toaster popped. “Eat your breakfast,” John murmured as he slowly, reluctantly separated them, “and we can cuddle a bit before I have to head into the clinic.”

It became an odd mix of cuddling and snogging. The next few days, they pushed and talked about these boundaries and Sherlock still refused to spend the full night with John. It became easier on Sherlock to distinguish when he felt ‘little’ and when he didn’t. John seemed to pick up well on those clues, too. It seemed to be during the night, when he was tired, or when he was feeling especially vulnerable that Sherlock would revert to these ‘little’ states. Out in public, he seemed to be able to force himself to avoid those feelings, but the flat was fair game.

Sherlock still went unusually quiet (he’d gone quiet before, but now it felt eerie) and would give John blank stares, as if he didn’t know what he should be feeling or doing. All John could do was hold Sherlock’s hand or card his fingers through his hair until Sherlock came back to him. No amount of coddling or pet names would make it go faster.

It was only when Sherlock was exhausted did he allow John to use the bottle. As much as he enjoyed the skin contact, the warmth, the coddling, and being allowed to suckle, he didn’t want to drink any amount of liquid right before sleeping.

However, when Sherlock woke John up to do just this—to _nurse_ him, for Christ sake, thought John—for the fourth time in a week and a half, John decided they needed to compromise.

“Listen, you could just sleep up in my room. You probably wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night. You certainly wouldn’t need to wake me up if you were already lying next to me. It would just be easier.”

Sherlock shook his head petulantly. “I can’t,” he insisted, again.

“Why can’t you? I already know about the bedwetting. I’ve already said it’s fine. You do it less when you sleep with me anyway. We’ll just do what we did before.”

He shook his head again.

“You’re making things more difficult than they have to be,” John said, exasperated and tired. Sherlock curled in on himself at the end of the sofa and latched onto his thumb; he didn’t care for John’s tone. John moved closer, put a hand on his knee, and apologized. “Love, if you’re really worried about it, we could always try nappies.”

Sherlock turned absolutely scarlet but didn’t shake his head.

“Do you like that idea? Or does that embarrass you? Make you uncomfortable?”

Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away from his mouth. “I tried them before. They’re practical. I just don’t like…” Sherlock’s voice faded before he finished his statement and he kicked at the floor. John noted how he avoided his gaze.

“Don’t like what?” John encouraged with another slight knee squeeze.

Sherlock paused for a few more moments, debating. “Don’t like doing it myself,” he said tentatively.

“Is that it?” John tried not to laugh. Sherlock seemed to pick up on it and turned to look at him accusingly.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with that. I should. It’s my responsibility.”

“And you’re my responsibility.” John settled in next to Sherlock, giving him the option but not forcing him to come to him. “I have no problem with changing you, if need be.”

“It’s gotten worse,” Sherlock mumbled into the crook of his arm.

“What has? The bedwetting?”

Sherlock looked at his foot still kicking the ground petulantly. “Mmh. The nightmares are worse, so this is worse.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to sleep in my bed for long stretches of time?”

He nodded slowly. “Bad enough I have to do laundry almost every morning, you shouldn’t have to.”

“Oh, sweetheart, we’ll fix that. You’ll get some sleep without worrying about it and I will be right there when you wake up. Does that sound okay?” He pushed a stray strand of hair behind Sherlock’s ear with a smile. After only a moment, he felt a weight on his chest and hot breath against his neck; Sherlock curled up to him in approval. They’d make it work, they always did.


End file.
